


Necromania

by brotherfuckersanonymous



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-21 03:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14907791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brotherfuckersanonymous/pseuds/brotherfuckersanonymous
Summary: Alternatively titled ‘Hownotto reconnect with your sibling on either an emotional or physical level’.





	Necromania

**Author's Note:**

> just some quick rambling brofuck because i'm in the mood. au where jerome is still alive and jeremiah is infected regardless. 
> 
> also, i never thought i'd say this in an author's note, but apparently i'm at that point in my life now: this fic has vague references to the romanticization of necrophilia or at least just a fascination with bodies. it's not explicit and mainly just focuses on murder. y'know, NORMAL STUFF YADA YADA YADA

The thing was, neither Jeremiah nor Jerome could really experience or give others affection or love or care or anything like that, except if it was an act or a joke or a party trick. Jerome didn’t deserve it, Jeremiah thought, and Jeremiah himself was a hurt and broken boy who had been _viciously maligned_ by his twin brother for years and it was just coming to a realization in a physical and emotional sense now. Jeremiah supposed he could hate Jerome for infecting him, breaking apart his moral compass, but at least now his eyes were open. He knew what he could inflict and indulge in and create with his own hands. 

Love. That’s what it was about. At the end of it all, Jeremiah was forced to think about love. None of what they did to each other was about love. It was like they were trying to kill each other every time they had their hands on each other and they were daring each other to go too far. It was a kind of fetish between the both of them, imagining what the other could do. 

It was pretty generous of Jerome to let Jeremiah experiment the way he did, more generous than Jeremiah wanted to give him credit for. Jerome always fought with him over who was going to remain dominant over the other, but he would lay back and let Jeremiah choke him, pushing both of them to a certain limit that Jeremiah always, always thought about crossing. 

"I wanna see you become who you were always meant to be," Jerome said one night, taking Jeremiah's hand and pressing gloved fingers against his own neck. "I wanna see what it'll look like in your eyes, baby brother. You're a _glorious_ experiment and I wanna be proud of you."

Jeremiah wasn't looking for Jerome's approval. He didn't need it. He didn't need approval from an idiotic, unstable, obnoxious, psychotic brat who killed their mother simply because he was throwing a temper tantrum. Jeremiah wanted respect and fear and awe and devotion, not to be Jerome's new pet. He wasn't a science project hidden away in a child's basement. He was fresh and raw and hungry, dissevering his fingers from each other as if he could only just start using them for the first time. He wanted to taste blood, but not dance in it, just feel it on his tongue instead.

The trouble was how badly Jeremiah did want to kill his brother, wanted to be rid of him so he could defile his corpse the way Jerome had probably defiled their mother's (jealousy was a hot-running Valeska trait and had probably had a heavy hand in the murder), but he couldn't. He'd gone back and forth on whether or not that had anything to do with the love thing, but he theorized it was more likely that he wanted Jerome around so he could show off. And have someone to fuck. 

Jeremiah hadn't ever been attracted to Ecco, not physically. He'd tried to sleep with her once, but he couldn't force himself to enjoy it and ended up calling it off anyway so he could feel hopelessly pathetic in his bedroom, masturbating to gore and clips of vaguely-titled gay pornography like usual, a habit he'd had since middle school. Before he and Jerome had been forced together again, Jeremiah hadn't had sex since ninth grade when he got drunk from stolen boxed wine and let an upperclassman molest him out of starvation for attention. So not only did it feel deliciously, disgustingly good just from the true nature of their relationship, from Jeremiah getting to suck his brother's cock, it felt _right_. Jeremiah had another man's body all to himself that he could hurt and feel hurt by in the way both he and Jerome liked. And Jerome was very, very good. 

It was another thing Jeremiah didn't want to give him credit for. For as many sob stories as he told about their mother letting him get 'abused' and 'overworked' in the circus, Jerome clearly had not spent his teenage years held away from the outside world and he socialized as often as he could. It was anyone's guess as to how much of the socializing was consensual or lacked the standard moral bankruptcy, but Jerome was _good_. And he knew he was, which was irritating, but Jeremiah could overlook it for the sake of almost blacking out from pleasure so often. 

Jeremiah loved the sex and the sadomasochism and his fine, new body, but he still wanted Jerome dead, just self-indulgently. He had daydreams about what Jerome would look like if he were dead, with freezing, graying, flaking skin, brittle bones, the smile gone from his face at last. Jeremiah thought of algor mortis erotically, imagining putrefaction and active decay and his twin brother’s useless corpse turning to liquid, proving that he was only ever human after all. He voiced all this to Jerome like it was the best form of pillow talk and Jerome drank it in with fascination, his tongue between his teeth and his hand on Jeremiah.

"What color am I?" Jerome asked breathlessly, his fingers dripping with lubricant as he fisted his and Jeremiah's cocks together. Jeremiah's eyes fluttered shut and his breath escaped in a shuddering, high-pitched sound, cutting off his train of thought for a moment. "Tell me what color I am, Miah."

Jeremiah's hips rolled up against Jerome's hand and he grabbed a handful of the bedsheets at his side, hissing between his teeth. "You're—you're turning green. Green and darkness and red and, ah, soon they're'll be purple. You're disintegrating, you're r-rotting from the inside out. Your skull is almost black."

"Aw, wow, you flatterer, you," Jerome said, eyes bright and shining. "Didn't know you had it in ya. Gimme some more."

Jeremiah licked his lips and dug his fingers into Jerome's wrist, his knees weak and trembling. "Flesh flies are going to call you their home. Sarcophagidae. They'll l-love you more than I ever will."

"What else?" Jeremiah twisted his grip, forcing a sharp noise from Jeremiah and nails biting into Jerome's skin. Jeremiah found it harder to keep going, but he made an effort, more out of pride than anything.

"Your skin is falling away—it's going to fall in tatters and everything's slipping away and you're melting into the earth—fuck, Jerome, please," Jeremiah gasped, arching up against Jerome and shutting his eyes tightly, his red mouth parting. 

Jerome kissed Jeremiah's open lips, sliding their tongues together in a sloppy, repulsive gesture. Jeremiah had to force himself from letting his legs give out as he came, hooking his arm around Jerome's neck and hanging on tight. 

It was too soon that Jerome pulled away, but his dark eyelids and spit-shining mouth were enough of a reward. Jerome swiped a drop of cum off Jeremiah's shirt and sucked it off his own finger while Jeremiah tried to get his breath back. 

"Can't wait till you actually get to kill me, pretty boy," Jerome said, his voice dark and scratched. "I'm gonna be in for a treat."


End file.
